#somethingaboutnoodles

'Hi! Are you Cas?' said a beautiful, tall blonde woman from the door of the stable. 'I am. You must be Jessica.' 'Please, call me Jess.' She extended her hand, and Cas removed his shovelling gloves to shake it. 'And this is my husband, Sam.' Cas had thought Jess was tall, but Sam towered over her. 'Nice to meet you, Sam. Welcome to Kellynch and your new home.' 'Thanks so much, Cas. We really appreciate the opportunity to stay here. Jess hasn't stopped talking about it.' 'I'm glad it's gone to someone who can appreciate it,' Cas replied with a sad smile. 'Would you like to meet the horses?' Jess was particularly enthusiastic, so Cas introduced her to the four beautiful animals. 'This is Grace, she's my sister Anna's. She's pretty gentle, and probably gets ridden the least of the four, so she's a good choice for you to ride.' He moved to the next stall. 'This little girl is Firecracker. We got her for my nephews to learn, and they're only four and six, which is why she's on the smaller side. Next to her is Mirabel's horse, Storm, but she'll also answer to Inclement Weather.' He smirked a little at this little joke to himself, and Jess giggled. 'Sit running,' she said in an awed whisper before laughing again. 'I love those comics.' 'I'm glad I'm not the only one who gets it. And finally, we have my handsome boy.' He patted the jet-black gelding lovingly. 'This is Impala.' Sam made an odd noise of surprise, and Cas turned to him with a raised eyebrow. 'Are you all right there, Sam?' 'Sorry, it's just a funny coincidence. My brother's car is a black Impala.' Cas's heart skipped a beat before he forced himself to be reasonable. There had probably been many thousands of Impalas manufactured over the decades, no doubt a large number of them black, and the chances of it being the same black Impala were- 'Actually, thinking about it, you might have met him. One time when he was visiting us on leave, we were watching the Cribs episode that your house featured in, and he mentioned he did some work here before he went into the Navy. When was that, Jess? 2012?' '2013,' Cas answered softly, looking determinedly at Impala and not Sam. 'Is your last name Winchester?' 'Yeah! So you remember Dean? He said he didn't really interact much with your family, but I figured you'd at least have crossed paths.' Cas took a deep breath to calm himself. So Dean had never mentioned their relationship to his brother in the end. It wasn't a total surprise; Dean had said he wanted to tell his family once it was a done deal, because his dad was kind of a casual homophobe and his teenage brother couldn't keep a secret to save his life. Better to present them with a fait accompli (Cas's words) than risk interference. He wondered if anyone knew but Dean, himself, and Naomi.

Pairings: Dean/Cas (Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Balthazar, Arthur Ketch/Dean Winchester)

Dean approached the corpse. He had a good stomach for smells, which was quite essential in his profession, but this alleyway was making him queasy. The victim was sprawled across the cobblestone, ungainly, eyes still open.

A slight sigh escaped Dean, and he tried to school his features into professional calm. This part was always sad, working out the first steps: who they were, what family they had, who loved them. Parts of his job, Dean loved with a fiery passion. This...no. He’d lost too many people himself to ever take joy in this part. 

And this body in particular...quite right, that Singer hadn’t sent some of the younger lads. They shouldn’t have to see one of their own in this state.

Pulling at the legs of his pants to gain some flexibility, Dean crouched down on the ground, resting a hand on his knee. He didn’t care for being amongst the dirt, but that was what bathwater was for. He was far from squeamish. He was about to ask the constable to begin moving everyone away, when a commotion at the mouth of the alleyway caught his attention.

The bumbling watchmen and nosy neighbors were pushed aside. Overhead, the gas street lamp sparked outrageously as it was knocked, lighting the alley brighter with a sudden flare as a man, Dean’s own height bar perhaps an inch, shouldered his way through the bystanders. His boots cracked loudly across the cobbles, and the unbuttoned tan coat over his suit flapped dramatically as he strode toward Dean, single-minded. The glow of the lamp highlighted strong, angular features and uncombed hair—though whether that was from the hour or habit, Dean was uncertain—and startling, vivid blue eyes that stripped down everything around him in silence.

“Lord Milton,” the constable greeted, apparently knowing his peerage better than Dean did, damn it. “Good to see you back in London, sir.”

The gentleman merely gave a brief nod, dismissive, before heading on past him, toward Dean. “Good evening, Mister Winchester. I believe you were expecting me?”

If his looks were unexpected, his voice was astounding. Dean cleared his throat, shaking away some genuinely ungentleman-like thoughts, and reminding himself who this spoiled little rich boy actually was. “Milton,” he responded, not deigning to shake the hand that was offered, or use the title that he should. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get your hands dirty. I do hope that’s not too upsetting for you, m’lord. You could always go back to bed, if this is a little much.”

Castiel Milton, all wide shoulders and distinctly disgruntled expression, didn’t look like he’d be quite so easy to put off. “Mister Singer directed me to be here. I suggest we get on with it.”

The constable made a small choking noise, before backing away. “I’ll get the boys to clear everyone out, sirs,” he said, backing away quickly, suddenly much keener on being elsewhere.

Dean is so done with this phone call. Leaning back in his office chair, he watches an industrious spider spin a web across a corner of the ceiling as his father lectures him in an echoing, static filled voice. Sam lopes by the office door, notices Dean’s face, and raises an eyebrow.  Dean sticks his thumb on his forehead, fingers splayed - the sign for “Dad”.  Sam makes a face and leaves without further comment. Dean would like to flip him off, but can’t really blame him. “I just think you should sell the place,” he’s saying. John’s voice is both tinny and fuzzy, like he’s on speaker for the world’s crappiest phone. “Like you did with that other building.” Dean sighs. “Dad. None of us wanted to run a bar, and the money from The Roadhouse is helping us renovate the theater. Besides, they left the theater to all of us, so I only own a fourth.” “Well what do you want with a theater for, anyway?” his father’s sneering tone says volumes. “We’ve had this conversation. We had it in high school, then in college, and again after Bobby died.  I feel like it’s overdone now. This is our home, and we’re happy here. Neither of us were suited for your um… life.” “I would have settled for the Marines, dammit!” he hears John slam the horn for emphasis, and winces. Dean hopes he’s not drunk, driving, or both. “Dad, gotta go. I’m late for the gay orgy. It’s my turn to bring the dildos, and I have a dress to pick up from the cleaners.” Dean hangs up on his father’s sputtering. When he looks up, he finds that Castiel is leaning on the doorway, unlit cigarette rolling between his fingers. “I know you meant to piss your father off, but this show isn’t actually far off from that.” Dean gets up and takes the cigarette away from Cas, flicking it into the garbage can. “Well. That just makes it better. You’re here early.” Cas grins, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek, sending the old familiar thrill down his spine. It’s chased by a melancholy that he hides with a smile. Castiel chooses not to see it, as usual. “Yeah, well, “ Castiel says, “Jo wanted to go over the choreography for the Time Warp. It’s just a jump to the left, but not everyone agrees on the definition of left.” Jo  passes through the hall, grabbing Cas by the ear as she does, forcing him to either go with her or suffer a painful fate. “C’mon handsome, stop torturing Dean.” He rolls his eyes, closing the door to his office and sitting on the worn and oft-repaired couch. The room is his, but it still feels like it belongs to Bobby, from the smell of old wood oil to the dust that hangs in the light from the window.

Sam, Jo, Dean and Cas grew up in this old building, helping backstage and showing old folks to their seats. They hung out in the costume storage and the scene shop upstairs. The best memories of his life are filled with sawdust and makeup, as far away from his father and his delusions as possible.